Stars above the Golden Hall
by Elesianne
Summary: At Éowyn and Faramir's wedding Lothíriel receives two proposals, and Éomer makes one.
1. Lothíriel

_**Chapter length:** ~2,100 words_

_**Some keywords: **arranged marriage, proposal, getting to know each other, post-war of the ring_

_**A/N: **My starting point for this fic was a couple of questions: How in a world where there are legendary, great romantic love stories do those fare who marry for more prosaic reasons? How do they negotiate their marriages and accept them as what they are?_

_I chose the Romance genre but this is not properly romantic. Pre-romantic, perhaps._

_The first chapter is from Lothíriel's POV, the second from Éomer's. Second chapter will be posted in a few days._

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**Stars above the Golden Hall: Chapter I  
**

'Lady Lothíriel, a moment?'

Lothíriel turns, startled, from her conversation with some ladies of the court of Rohan to see lord Duinhir looking at her expectantly.

Duinhir is a lord of western Gondor like her father, holding the fiefdom of Morthond Vale along the river Morthond, west of Land of the Prince. Lothíriel knows him well as kind, prudent man.

'Of course, my lord'. She allows him to draw her aside to her quieter hallway, away from Faramir and Éowyn's marriage celebrations that are becoming ever more boisterous as the hour has grown late and the newlyweds have departed already. Her guard stays close to her, as instructed by her father.

Duinhir appears more than a little flushed, like most men by now at this merry celebration in the way of the Rohirrim. He keeps a polite distance, though, and speaks decorously as is his wont.

'You look lovely tonight, Lothíriel, as lovely a southern flower as your mother. I hope that you shall forgive me my frankness: I wish to speak directly to you of a private matter.'

Alarmed, Lothíriel adjusts her expression to passivity as she listens on. She does not like where she believes Duinhir to be heading. He is a good man, a valued ally and neighbouring lord of her father's, but he is well over fifty years old. He had two grown sons that he lost in the war, the elder of whom Lothíriel might have married if he'd survived the fighting.

Lord Duinhir must have been young when he married and had his sons, and he is still a strong man unbent by age though grief has carved many new lines on his face during the last few years. But he is too old, too much like a distant uncle that she has known all her life, for her to imagine him as her husband.

Lord Duinhir begins, 'As you know I lost both my sons on Pelennor fields.' She sees the shadow of grief for Derufin and Duilin on him still. 'I have no other heir that I would care to have succeed me as lord of Morthond Vale, and thus I am forced to look for a wife again.' He sighs. 'My dear Glaerdil passed away soon after Duilin's birth, and with two strong sons I didn't think I needed to marry again. Yet here I am, an old man soon, looking for a wife young enough to give me an heir. You are from a learned and noble-hearted line, Lothíriel, and deemed so yourself. Is there enough compassion in your heart to speak on my behalf to your father?

'Our blood in Morthond Vale does not run as pure as in Dol Amroth', Duinhir continues before Lothíriel could give him any answer, 'but my people are many and my land is fairer now than ever as it is at last free of the shadow of the dead men in the mountain above our valley. And I promise that I would treat you with more care and esteem than some young buck might.'

It is certainly a most unconventional proposal, and not a welcome one, and yet one that Lothíriel finds it difficult to turn down.

In Duinhir's eyes is a rather heart-aching combination of hope and sorrow, all mixed with kindness. She does not doubt that he means his words.

'You are a most noble lord, Duinhir of Morthond Vale, though you disparage the heritage of your line.' She fights to find the right gentle words. 'I have known you to be so since I was a child, and I know that any lady who becomes your wife will be a fortunate woman. I do not think, however, that that honour is for me.'

There is only a very small flash of disappointment on Duinhir's face: he appears not to have had much hope. He seems tired all of a sudden, though, his features more shadowed and lined.

He says, 'Thank you for your graciousness in my rejection, my lady. I need not speak to your father, then.' Quite unnecessarily, he bows his head to her. 'It is probably for the best, anyway, for me to seek as bride someone whom I haven't known since she was the height of my knee.'

Lothíriel nods, still shaken. 'Perhaps a lady of Rohan? With this country's grievous losses, there are many who sadly lost their husband or betrothed, and more who will have a difficult time finding a man to marry because their noblemen's ranks were so depleted as the price of their heroic deeds in the war.'

Duinhir nods at her in turn, and appears to sink in thought. 'I have thought of it myself. Indeed, perhaps some young enough widow who still has a wanting or need for a husband – preferably someone who has had a babe or two already, it would be the safest option, you know, knowing that she can –' But here he appears to remember who she is talking to and quickly apologises. 'Forgive me, lady Lothíriel. The hour is late, and I am both maudlin and inebriated, forgetting how to talk to the Prince's daughter! I beg your pardon, and bid you good night.'

Before she can wish him a good rest as well, he returns to the feasting hall.

Lothíriel takes a deep breath and tells her guard, who appears to be having difficulty keeping a straight face, that she will go outside to get some fresh air. He makes way for her in the throng of people, most of them flushed and merry and loud, and Lothíriel is grateful for her father's insistence on a guard for her even in the house of an ally and friend.

Outside Meduseld the night is cool though the day that has passed was Midyears' day. Lothíriel enjoys the crisp freshness of the air that greets her as she walks away from the many torches and braziers in front of the Hall, down the stairs, and to the edge of the green terrace where Meduseld is situated. There is no one there but some guards unfortunate enough to be on duty on a day of celebration. She finds a spot some way away from them, and raises her gaze to the skies.

Despite the light and smoke from Edoras, she can see all the stars on the wide sky on this clear, cloudless night. The stars are as lovely above the valley where Rohan's royal city lies as is in daylight the greenness of the valley and the snow-capped, lonely peak that the Rohirrim call Starkhorn rising at the end of it, behind Edoras.

Lothíriel has enjoyed the wedding festivities of Faramir and Éowyn and she could not be happier for her cousin and for Rohan's white lady who suffered much grief before finding a new happiness. But she has been surrounded by people and noise all day, and in a lesser degree for the whole week that her family has been here in Edoras.

It is good to breathe deep and look at the stars, and think. Duinhir's proposal and turning it down has left her sentimental. She feels sorry for the lord of Morthond Vale, and for all like him who have to seek a new spouse though they would rather grieve with ample time the ones they lost in the war. She doesn't like it that Duinhir debased himself so many times during his proposal, for he is a noble man who has found himself in an unenviable position of having to find a wife half his age.

She had to turn him down, though. To have agreed to speak to her father on his behalf would have, if Imrahil had given her leave to marry Duinhir, not likely have resulted in anyone's contentment. And more likely her father would have turned Duinhir down on Lothíriel's behalf, injuring their good relations.

Imrahil has promised her that he will not make her wed a man twice her age or otherwise unsuitable, and Lothíriel trusts in his promise and his judgement.

There is a prospective match that she does find agreeable, based on all that she knows this far, one which Imrahil has been quietly making for her ever since the end of the War – or quite possibly before it, if she knows his forethought right. That match is only eight years older than her and a strong handsome man, though different from the strong handsome men she is accustomed to being around.

Lothíriel drops her gaze from the stars to Meduseld and the city around it. A city of wooden houses, surrounded by a wooden wall, with a hall of gilt and wood and golden thatches. There is no marble citadel here, no tall towers rising high above the sea: Edoras could not be more different from her home.

Yet she likes it, how the Hall rises proud and golden at the head of the valley, and the wooden city withstands the wind from the plains and the snow from the mountains, and before the city on the mounds of kings always blooms fair _simbelmynë_, evermind. Like a carpet of white lace on green grass, it blossoms heedless of cold seasons, she has been told.

The endurance of the city seems to her a perfect metaphor for the people of this country.

It is her second time here. Her father called Lothíriel and her mother to Minas Tirith when the shadow in the east had been vanquished. Despite Idhrenes' dislike of swift travel they made it to the Anduin and up the river in time for King Elessar's coronation and after it came with King Théoden's funeral escort to Edoras together with many lords and knights of Rohan and Gondor.

Imrahil and his family stayed in Edoras for a time. Lothíriel had during that first stay come to know Éowyn, Faramir's bride-to-be, and the women of the court. But though her father and brothers deepened the friendship which they had forged with Éomer during the war, Lothíriel talked little with him then and got her impression of the kind of man he is from the way other people talk about him. Her father speaks of the young king highly and, Lothíriel has thought since the beginning, to her in particular.

She got to know Éomer a little better when he visited Dol Amroth the next spring. He was a gracious guest, speaking fairly of the city and its sights and appreciating the preparations that Lothíriel's mother had made for his visit. He hadn't seemed to mind that several times her parents contrived or outright encouraged him to be her escort to this place or that, or had them sit next to each other for a meal.

At the end of the visit Lothíriel's parents came to her and asked whether she would be amenable to their beginning negotiations for a marriage with the king of Rohan, and she told them that she was.

Nothing was settled yet, then, though Éomer had indicated his willingness too and it appeared to everyone who knew of it a good match and a happy further strengthening of the union between Gondor and Rohan.

Lothíriel wishes her mother were here in Rohan for when the matter will be discussed again, but Idhrenes had taken ill shortly before the departure and stayed home.

Lothíriel sinks deep enough into thought of possible futures that she doesn't notice the cool air becoming uncomfortably so as minutes pass or, when many have passed, the arrival of another person close to her.

Her guard's clearing of his throat startles her to awareness of a tall figure next to her, one whom she has no difficulty recognising but is more than surprised to see.

'Your majesty!' She curtsies hurriedly. 'Forgive me, I was lost in thought.'

King Éomer waves a dismissive hand. 'I did not announce myself. Besides, the children of Imrahil in their silver clothes are easy to recognise. In my dark cloak I must be more difficult to.'

A dark green cloak he wears, yes, but it is gold-trimmed and under it he wears bright mail, and a crown on his head whose gold gleams in the low light. He could not be mistaken for any other.

His light hair is a little mussed, no longer neatly braided down his back but some of it framing his face, and he too appears somewhat affected by the mead that has been flowing so freely. It is a version of him she hasn't seen before, and she thinks she likes it no less than all the other versions she has seen.

* * *

**_A/N:_ **_This conversation continues in the next chapter._

_This happens to be my first Lord of the Rings fic for about 15 years._


	2. Éomer

_**Summary:** A long conversation in starlight._

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**Chapter II – Éomer**

When after his sister and her husband's departure Éomer mentioned to Imrahil that he was going out to get some air, Imrahil asked him to keep an eye for Lothíriel whom he hadn't seen for a while. Éomer promised, wondering whether this was another of Imrahil's unsubtle yet not unwelcome attempts at making the two of them spend time together.

He happens on her on the lower terrace, alone but for her guard. She is a fair shadow of silver in her dress and cloak and appears to be staring into the distance, deep enough in thought that he startles her.

'Your father told me he'd not seen you for some time. Long enough for him to worry, it seemed', Éomer says to her.

'The hour was growing late for me, my lord', Lothíriel says. 'I will retire soon, but I wanted to have some fresh air and look at the stars first.'

'That is elf-like talk.'

She lets out a surprised small laugh. 'My intentions were not elf-like. The ladies of your court arranged so much to do inside the hall for us visiting women today that I have not stepped outside until now', she explains.

He notices that she shivers a little in her silk clothes, and without a word he unfastens his own woollen cloak and settles it on her shoulders.

Lothíriel's overeager young guard close by shuffles on his feet at that, and in his slightly drunken state Éomer almost snaps at him.

He decides to disregard him, though, instead giving Lothíriel a look long enough to border on staring. 'You look good in gold and green', he tells her. The cloak is a little too long on her, brushing the ground.

She looks him in the eye for the first time since she arrived in Edoras, emboldened by the dim light perhaps. 'It is a fine cloak, my lord', she says. 'Thank you.'

He looks at her for a long time again, thinking. 'Will you stay and talk with me a while, lady?'

'Of course, my lord. Is there something in particular that you wish to talk about?

There is. He hadn't meant to talk of it tonight, but here under the stars in as much privacy as they could hope for seems like a good place.

'I know that the negotiations are far from done, as is only right – they should not have been made complete before my sister was wedded. And I understand you father is hesitant to hurry because of your age', he says. 'But I want you to know that I will put a crown of gold on you, if I have my will. I think that the queen's coronet that has long lain unused in the treasury of the Mark would suit you well though it is a simple creation compared to the ancient, elf-like finery of Gondorians.'

Lothíriel seems taken aback at his straightforwardness but recovers quickly. 'Do you think I could suit the land of Rohan?' She makes a small gesture with her hand, indicating the Hall behind them, the city around them, and the spots of light in the valley that mark small villages and single homesteads.

'I think you would learn', Éomer says, finding himself more thoughtful than a man should be on a night of celebration like this. 'My lady, we do not know each other well yet, but you seem to me someone who knows their duty and works diligently to fulfil it, and knows how to. If you choose me and my land, I think that you will fulfil your duty to it and me admirably.'

The daughter of Imrahil smiles and bows her head. 'Thank you. It is a fine compliment from one who has taken on well whatever responsibility has come his way, expected or not. What an unconventional conversation this is!' She gives a little laugh though it seems she tries not to. 'I never expected to speak with you like this, my lord.'

'If we will be married, I would have it at least be with a good understanding of each other, though ours would be a marriage for practical reasons rather than a great love story worthy of song', he tells her.

Lothíriel bows her head again, and nods. 'That is wise. Do you believe, lord, that you and I might suit each other, too, as wife and husband and not only as queen and king?'

He cannot help smiling back at her rather jubilantly. He is a little in his cups, and he likes the way she dares to speak frankly here at the edge of darkness. She looks fairer than fair in the low light in her light dress and his cloak, the pearls in her hair like stars amid the black waves of it. Her eyes are dark and serious.

'I think we might', he replies. 'Very well.'

It occurs to Éomer for the first time to wonder whether Lothíriel is one of the many women who was promised to a man who fell in battle.

It is a strange kind of night, this wedding night of his sister's, and he is in a strange mood, and he and Lothíriel are already speaking frankly so he decides to simply ask.

'My father was putting together a list of options for me', Lothíriel replies. 'He was not in a hurry because I was – still am – young in the reckoning of my people, and because he could see the war gathering in the east and did not wish to see me widowed soon after marrying, he told me.'

'The war changed the fates of many even before it broke out fully.' Éomer looks to where a little way away a shield-brother's house lies empty and dark, ownerless since the battle at the Fords of Isen.

'I might be married but for it', he muses. 'I had thought for little other than the enemies slowly encroaching on our lands ever since I was a boy whose parents they slew – I have been fighting the fights of my people as long as I have been permitted to ride to battle. In spite of that, had my uncle been himself, he might have urged me to marry and suggested matches. But for five too-long years before Gandalf healed him, Théoden King was under Saruman's spell and had little thought that was not of fear and despair.'

Éomer likes the way Lothíriel looks at him then, with her calm grey eyes filled with much understanding but little open pity. She resembles her father as much as her oldest brother, the most serious one of Imrahil's three sons.

'I have attended a great many betrothals and weddings this last year', Éomer says. 'It seems that all around me people are becoming betrothed and married – my liegemen, my guards, my shield-brothers. My sister, too.' He smiles at Lothíriel wryly. 'My people seem as determined to increase themselves as we are to increase our horse herds.'

Lothíriel appears to fight a smile, saying, 'It is the same in Gondor. Those that were spared death are filled with a great desire to live.'

'And the lords of Rohan and Gondor have a great need for heirs.' Éomer finds himself frowning. 'Éowyn's sons will be Gondorians, heirs for the prince of Ithilien. My own heir is a son of a cousin, the son of the daughter of my mother and Théoden's sister. No king of the Mark has been so distant a heir, and my council keep telling me that I must not die before I have a son.'

Lothíriel casts her eyes at the sky at that, and says in a voice as cool as the light of distant stars, 'I can see why you would be impatient with my father's pace of preparing for marriage between me and yourself, my lord. Fortunately there are many other ladies who have no such impediment for a swift union with you.'

'No – Lothíriel.' He turns to her, grasping her arm under the two cloaks that she wears. 'It is not that – not only that, what I said so coarsely. It is for the chief part that once I have decided and begun something, I prefer to see it to its end as soon as possible. Your father calls it my 'regrettable rashness' and would lecture me out of it if he could.'

Lothíriel grants him a small smile at that. Apparently she bears no easy grudges. 'And do you allow him to lecture at you?'

'Often, though I do not always listen. He has many decades of experience in being a leader in both peace and war that I admire. I have learned much from him, and there is more yet he could teach me, I'm sure.'

With a small feeling of regret that he must, he lets go of her arm. Despite his hasty words she doesn't appear to be thinking of leaving.

'I am his only daughter, and his youngest child', Lothíriel says. 'He is protective of me. He doesn't want to hurry my marriage, not even to a king.'

'And that is another reason to hold him in high esteem.' Éomer sighs. 'Yet it remains true that in this matter we are of different minds, he and I, and have different interests.'

'There could be a compromise', Lothíriel suggests. 'A decision made soon, but an engagement of some length. A year or more.'

'A year is common for the betrothals of nobleborn folk', Éomer agrees. 'Yet we speak only of my desires, and those of your father's. I have learned, through bitter and shameful experience, that women's needs and desires can be ignored only at one's peril. What do you want, lady?'

Lothíriel takes long enough to answer that Éomer's impatience raises its head, exacerbated by all the mead he has steadily if slowly drunk over the course of the evening. But he restrains himself and waits, and at length she replies, 'You are a king of great valour and honour and I hold you in high esteem, my lord, and so does all of my family. I will be your queen if you so wish and if my lord father agrees.

'As for the time: my father keeps telling me that I am young, but I believe that all who were young when the darkness of Mordor waged war on us are not so young anymore. Not even us who awaited news in the safer western citadels of Gondor that faced less fierce siege and battle than Minas Tirith. We were the lucky ones, yet the shadow threatened all that we hold dear, too.'

'I often wonder at the wise poetry that the people of Dol Amroth speak', Éomer says. 'But I am glad for your words, my lady, and hope that you will soon take as yours all that is mine.

'It would, I must suppose, be better for a king to be able to speak to his future queen of a flourishing, prosperous land. This country was that once, though it was so long ago that I do not remember it. And now.' He gathers his words. 'My people are strong of heart and hand, and proud in their own manner that may be different from Gondor's.

'But this land was rent deep by the war, and is not healed yet though we have all been hard at work. There are villages that still lay burned and empty, and horse-herds that have not recovered and will take years to build up again. Not only were our crops burned but many granaries as well, leaving us with little to resow our fields with. There are many widows struggling to get by without a husband, many orphans in the care of their overburdened relatives.

'There is much work to do in Rohan, much scarcity and need, and its leaders must keep hope and give it to the people. For a maiden of Gondor to take on that duty – there must be lighter ones on offer for Imrahil's daughter, I am sure.'

'You already told me that you believe I would do well, my lord', Lothíriel answers, a little infuriatingly.

'It is still your choice to take on that commitment.'

'And my father's. My lord, the ladies of Rohan have more power in the choosing of their husbands than do the ladies of Gondor, and the princes of Dol Amroth are known for being particularly careful in making marriages for their daughters', Lothíriel reminds him in turn.

But she continues, 'I saw some of how what this land had suffered and what it endured when I came here first a year ago, and now the second time by the same route. I saw how much was already rebuilt and resown despite the meagre resources you speak of: green fields that were burned and black the year before, and new buildings being raised up. Valour in battle is indeed not the only strength that lives in your people. I have no doubt that Riddermark will endure and prosper again.'

The Rohirric name of Éomer's country on Lothíriel's tongue sounds lovely: a little clumsy but no less charming for it.

'You will miss your home, so far away, on the other side of the impassable White Mountains', he finds himself saying.

'My lord, are you trying to make me regret my decision?' Éomer thinks he sees Lothíriel's eyes sparkle with amusement, though it may be a trick of the light. She has relaxed as their conversation has gone on, he thinks.

'By no means would I do that', he denies. 'I am only thinking of how my sister has in recent months visited all the places that have been dear to her, before she soon leaves to her new home in Ithilien.'

'I will miss my home, I'm sure. My family and friends and the sea that has always been the view out of my windows – my constant friend, for all her tides and moodiness – and, as you say of lady Éowyn, all the places that have been dear to me.' Lothíriel smiles a rather sad little smile. 'But it is the fate of most noblewomen – the price for the comfort and luxury we live in, perhaps – to leave their home of birth and join their husband's household far away.'

Éomer frowns. 'I have never thought of it thus.'

'There are many ways to see it, I am sure. For me, it is a loss that I have been preparing for all my life, and one that I hope and trust will bring new good things with it to take the place of what I must give up.'

'That trust must be what makes it bearable, giving up your old life in exchange for something that bears little resemblance to the great romances that some have – Aragorn and his Evenstar, my sister and Faramir.'

Her voice trembling a little, she replies, 'It is.'

He does not know what to say to that, for all that he was the one who raised the subject, and there is a moment of silence between them.

'Lothíriel.' As he speaks her name she raises her eyes to his, still bright and calm though she appears tired, he notices. 'After all that has been said this night, will you speak to your father for me tomorrow so that the negotiations and arrangements for our union may truly begin?'

'Tomorrow? I must agree with my father's assessment of you as a hasty one, my lord. He would have approached you about them soon anyway.' But she does not need more than a second to give him her answer, raising her chin ever so slightly. 'But I like your forthrightness, king of the Mark, and I will speak to him in the morning.'

Éomer likes that she dared to make gentle fun of him, and likes the rest of her answer even better. Relaxing in triumph that spreads warm in his veins like the best mead, he replies, 'I am happy to hear that.'

He gazes up at the sky, taking it in for the first time. The moon has risen high: the hour grows truly late and he believes that it is time he delivered the lady to her father. She has already indulged him longer than he thought she might.

'Let me escort you inside, my lady. I know that you have your own keen guardian –' Éomer amuses himself by glancing at the bristling young man in his swan-helmet '– but after so long spent in private conversation, I think it best that I take you back to your father and you can assure him that nothing untoward happened before you retire for the night.'

Lothíriel blushes. 'He would not suspect that of you', she says.

Éomer grins, that warmth in his veins making him wilder than he should be. 'In that, wise prince Imrahil might be wrong', he says. But before Lothíriel can become too startled, he very properly offers her his arm. 'Let us go inside, Lothíriel.'

To his surprise she doesn't take his arm. 'Your cloak –' she says instead, beginning to shrug the forgotten cloak off her shoulders.

'Let me.' Éomer indulges his rapidly awakening desires by taking it off her, revealing her silver glory again. The rich fabric of her clothes glimmers even in this light.

They go up the stairs and inside Éomer's golden hall, his personal guard and hers behind them, people parting before them to make way for the king and the lady on his arm. It feels like a good omen of the future, or a moment stolen before its time.

But if it is a stolen moment it Éomer receives no punishment for it, for Imrahil's face shows little surprise when Éomer brings his daughter back to him – for now – and more good humour than anything else.

Éomer bids them both goodnight, and leaves to find some old friends to share a cup or two more mead. No more, because he needs to have his wits about him in the morning.

He knows that he will still feel Éowyn's absence keenly – how could he not? – but the future seems lighter to him.

* * *

The next afternoon, their wedding day is set on next year's Midyear's day, one day short of a year away. It is, after all, an auspicious day to marry.

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_**A/N:** Lothíriel and Éomer both spend a lot of time explaining to themselves and other people that they will marry purely because of practical, sensible reasons, in the service of their countries and so on – but it is not quite the whole truth._

_I'm going to write sequels showing their relationship developing. NOTE that I might not post all sequels on this website because of ffnet's ratings policy, so as always, Archive of Our Own is the best place to read my fics and subscribe to my username. I'm Elesianne there too.  
_

_Thanks to everyone who reviewed/reviews!  
_


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